


The Greatest of Fools

by humangus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, The Battle of the Blackwater
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:35:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24412153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humangus/pseuds/humangus
Summary: ”I could keep you safe.  They’re all afraid of me.”  Her wrist, a standard in his grasp.  “No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.”  Her pulse, a vow beneath his fingertips.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	The Greatest of Fools

_They say I’m half a man. What does that make you?_

A dog, and he is as any dog ought to be; obedient, but not witless. Thrice he staggered, headlong and hackled, into the fray. Thrice he crept back to the gate, tail-tucked and scorched. Not again. Not when his hands tremble like autumn leaves. Not when his lungs choke on ash. Not when his guts churn like the burning water.

Craven, they will call him. Let them. Why should a dog care for the opinion of rats?

Instinct, to flee the flames. Green as bile, perverted, unrelenting. 

Instinct, to drown in wine. His ears, stuffed with cotton. His eyes, slow and hazy. His mind, a skittering hare. His feet, capricious. 

A familiar door. 

Instinct, to shelter there. Black as sin inside, but cool, still, nearly quiet. Fresh rushes on the floor, the aroma, crushed beneath his boots, heady. A featherbed, deep and soft, to catch him reeling. 

It is the light that rouses him, her whimper that spurs him. She is silhouetted in the emerald glow, hair like flame, like blood. “Little bird. I knew you’d come.” Her face a twist of horror, her breath a rib-stretching sort of gasp. 

Instinct, to reach for her. She writhes against him, but he is still strong. He can feel the brush of her fluttering eyelashes against his finger, the press of her lips against his palm. 

“I’ll kill you. Believe that.” 

And she believes. Her voice, like shattered glass, and her face, a wilting bloom. 

“I only know who’s lost. Me.” 

What have you lost, she dares ask him. As if he has not lost all _._ The fidelity of his sword. The set of his shoulders. The thrust of his spine. The certainty of solid ground. He swallows his words with the last of his wine. 

“I’m going.” 

Where will you go, she dares ask him. As if he is not some rudderless ship, lost, listless, adrift on a choppy sea. As if he is not some wheel flung from a cart, broken, unfettered, barreling towards a cliff. Where will he go? He could ask her the same just as well. 

“North, somewhere, anywhere.” 

Why are you here, she dares ask him. There’s the true riddle. Does she not see the blind turmoil she has wrought? Does she not see what a wretched hope she has roused? If only she would _look_ at him, she would see. 

“You promised me a song.” 

He could be bold as any fool. Yearns to be. Would be, for her, if only she would— 

“Look at me.” Two moon-bright orbs, a blue finer than any sapphire, glimmering in the darkness. He, a moth. “I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me.” Her wrist, a standard in his grasp. “No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.” Her pulse, a vow beneath his fingertips. 

Her face upturned, the sun upon the horizon. Would she sneer, if he stole that light for himself? A flinch, and then the light is snuffed out. 

“Still can’t bear to look.” 

A fool and his cunt. He sloughs away this dross that has bubbled to the surface. It is froth in a boiling pot; it is scum on a stagnant pool. Left behind is instinct gone feral. 

She, featherlight, cowering, a sprawl across the mattress. “I’ll have that song.” He, looming, a beast, the kiss of cold steel. “Sing.” Would she scream, if he sunk his teeth into her? “Sing for your pretty little life.” 

Her voice is silvery and sweet; a feast, a succor. Shame, needling like so many tiny arrows. Her voice is sharp and sure; a charge, a plea. Shame, hot as wildfire in his throat. Her fair visage, enshrouded in gossamer beneath him. Her delicate hand, cradling his ruin. And he, unworthy, the greatest of fools. 

“Little bird.” 

Instinct, to flee from her. The white cloak is shed easily as snakeskin, all the more false for having ever been upon his shoulders. Thief, she will name him. Let her. Let her look upon the burnt wool and remember. Who was it that came back, when the mob had her? Who was it that held a blade to her throat and wept? 

_They say I’m half a man. What does that make you?_

A dog, and he is as any dog ought to be; feckless, without a master.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is incredibly self-indulgent, but here we are anyway. I hope you'll let me know what you thought!


End file.
